


Alternative Medicine: The Cuddling Cure

by Kameo (Brainygiirl), PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Always1895, Cuddling & Snuggling, Doctor John Watson, Foot Massage, Hand Jobs, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Massage, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14858405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainygiirl/pseuds/Kameo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: Sherlock has a migraine. Luckily, John Watson is a doctor. Science! To the rescue! Also, cuddling.





	Alternative Medicine: The Cuddling Cure

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (Kameo) first co-writing effort and WOW! I LOVED it! Mostly because my co-writer is brilliant. Whatever you like about it is probably hers...  
> This is PsychGirl... ah, Kameo is underestimating herself - she's the one who came up with all the remedies! But I agree that it was a blast to co-write with her!  
> Thank you FinAmour for coming up with the challenge!

It was all bollocks. Lestrade kept gushing. He had “just prevented the destruction of an entire chemical factory.” It was the word “entire” that screeched, like fingernails on the blackboard of his brain attic.

Sherlock heard John from a distance: “You kept them from blowing up three entire factories,” “explosions that could have wiped out entire blocks,” “an entire network of arsonists.” Bollocks. He countered each “entire” in his head. Three entire factories saved? Four entirely destroyed. Wiped out entire blocks? Seven entire families left homeless. Entire network? Entirely impossible to determine. How could anyone think the matter had been concluded successfully? How stupid were they all? Failed, he’d failed, he was too slow, he’d missed at least three details that would have saved…

 _He will keep blathering on, though._ Innocent lives. Saved property. Genius, amazing, bollocks. The shrieking of the words set his teeth on edge. He tried to still his twitching, knowing that John, bloody, brilliant John, was just beginning to see the tension worming its way out of his gut and crawling up, over his shoulders and knotting the muscles of his neck. He could hear the rushing, seashell sound in his ears, advanced warning of the migraine now stalking him. Soon he’d feel the point of the spike drilling into his temple, letting too much light into his skull.

_Why won’t he shut up?_

He turned his head to see John examining him, eyes narrowed. With a start, he realized that all of John’s comments for the past few moments had just been echoes in his head, and that John had actually been silent during most of that time.

“Sorry, Greg,” John said, cutting Lestrade off in the middle of another ramble about lives saved. “We’ve got to run. Got to pick Rosie up, it’s Mrs. Hudson’s bridge night.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest—Rosie was with Molly for the evening—but before he could say anything, John wrapped a hand around his wrist and hailed a cab.

The inside of the cab was dim and cool, and he felt the throb at the back of his neck lessen somewhat. John was still holding his wrist; his grip had loosened, but Sherlock could still feel the warmth of his hand.

Without turning his head, John said, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? We agreed…”

“Agreed on what? You harassing me, haranguing me, trying to bash your way into my—” He cut off with a choked sob and hunched over. John slid his arm around his shoulder and pulled him to his chest. Sherlock felt even worse. Here he was, an obnoxious, childish, ungrateful—

“Stop it. I know what you’re doing and you need to stop it. Nobody could have done what you did and if you torture yourself like this, you won’t be able to keep on. I won’t let you. I’ll tell Greg to stop calling. You’re making yourself sick. You’re getting a migraine, aren’t you?”

Sherlock would have nodded but the pain was beginning to nauseate him, so he just hummed his assent.

“Did you take a pill? Of course not. You can’t wait so long, Sherlock, it reduces the effectiveness.” John rummaged in the countless pockets of Sherlock’s coat until he found the pillbox he’d stocked and stashed. It had been a long struggle to get Sherlock to agree to see a neurologist and experiment with medication. It had taken few hours to show him the research and explain that the mechanism had nothing to do with pain relief. It was only taken as needed with absolutely no chance of addiction. Still, Sherlock never took his recovery for granted and was leery of anything that might make him feel better; except for John and cases.

“Open. Put it under your tongue.” He held the tablet to Sherlock’s mouth, but he turned away. He hated the taste of it and the way it made his muscles ache. It made him so tired and muddled.

“I can’t, I have to—”

“Nothing. You have to do nothing. In half an hour you’re going to be sick and I’m your doctor. You’re going to lie down and I’m going to take care of you. So shut it and,” he chuckled at his self-contradiction, “open your mouth. And no smart remarks. ”

Sherlock quirked his lip, then opened his mouth meekly, letting the bitter pill melt under his tongue. They rode the rest of the way quietly, John with one arm around him, scratching Sherlock’s scalp and combing his fingers through his hair.

When they got to Baker Street, the nausea had receded somewhat, but there was still pounding in his temples and the brightness of the streetlights made him squint in agony. John paid the fare and hustled him up the steps and in the door, one arm still around his shoulder. He guided him up the steps to the flat and stripped Sherlock’s coat off. In no time at all, Sherlock was lying on the couch, while John pulled the curtains and turned off the lights. “Close your eyes and relax,” he said. “I think I have a few more things that will help.”

The medicine was beginning to take effect, and his limbs were beginning to feel heavy. He drifted, drowsing, until he felt something damp and cool placed across his eyes. He inhaled and the gentle scent of lavender tickled his nose, reminding him of summers spent at his grandmother’s estate in France.

John’s fingers were in his hair again, rubbing his scalp gently. He tried to say something but could only exhale. He heard John chuckle and then his fingers were gone. Moaning in protest, he reached out a hand, wiggling his fingers in what he hoped was a beseeching yet dignified way.

“Hang on, don’t get your pants in a twist, I’ll be right back,” John said, the warmth in his voice belying the sharpness of his words.

In spite of all John’s efforts, Sherlock could still feel that sharp spike at his temple, waiting to drill down. To take his mind off of it, he listened to John move around the kitchen, deducing what he was doing. Filling the kettle with water… turning it on… now opening the cabinet for something… sounded like the French press… now he was going to the pantry… yes, making coffee, that was it. He heard the refrigerator—no, the freezer—door open and ice cubes clink into a bowl.

He tried to focus on the burbling sound of the kettle boiling and then the soft hiss of water poured into coffee grounds, but the pounding in his head drowned it all out after a while. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. The back of his neck felt tight and hot.

After a few moments John came back into the sitting room and Sherlock heard the soft clicks as he set a cup down on the coffee table, then the bowl of ice. “There’s some coffee for you,” he said. “It’s pretty hot, so we’ll give it some time to cool.” He nudged Sherlock, who scooted up on the couch a little and lifted his feet. When John sat down, Sherlock put his feet back down on his lap. John fumbled at the top of Sherlock’s feet, then Sherlock felt his right shoe slide off. There was a dull thump as John tossed it to the ground.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just trying something out.”

The other shoe followed suit, and then John tugged his socks off. The air was cool on his bare feet and he wiggled his toes a little. John’s hand, warm and firm, closed over the arch of his right foot. He gasped a little, and heard John chuckle. Then John’s thumb started massaging circles into the arch of his foot, gently at first, and then more strongly.  
He groaned as shivers shimmied in waves up his spine. That felt so good. He couldn’t remember ever getting his feet massaged before. How had he managed to miss out on this? The throbbing in his head lessened.

John had applied both hands to his right foot, now, and was alternating strong sure strokes of his thumbs up Sherlock’s arch with firm tight circles on the top with his fingers. He stretched his toes out and John slid the fingers of one hand in between each of them, rubbing gently, and Sherlock thought he might actually explode from delight.

“I read in some Western/alternative medicine crossover journal that there were lots of spots in the feet that had to do with headaches, and one of the recommendations for a migraine was massaging the soles of the feet.” He paused, and Sherlock could hear his smile in his voice. “Seems like it might be working?”

He made an incoherent noise and nudged John with his left foot. John chuckled and switched his attentions.

The pain wasn’t receding anymore, but it wasn’t advancing, either. And the medication wasn’t having such a negative effect on him—he didn’t feel as sharp, mentally, as usual, but he didn’t feel as muzzy as he usually did, either. He exhaled and felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders loosen.

“Different remedies work in different ways,” John said quietly. He was using his doctor voice, the one that could soothe small frightened children and irritable consulting detectives in pain. Now he was back to working on Sherlock’s right foot, sweeping firm strokes up Sherlock’s arch, and then cupping his heel in one hand and rubbing the back of his ankles with his fingers. Gooseflesh prickled across the back of his calves and thighs. “Some, like the cool cloths and the coffee, even this gooseflesh,” John drew his fingertips, ever so softly, tickling and spreading, up the sides of his ribs, “help to constrict your blood vessels.

Sherlock became aware that John’s foot massage was having an unintended effect. He was half hard inside his trousers, and each stroke up his arch—John had switched back to his left foot now—was causing heat to pool in his groin.

John continued his lecture, but Sherlock could hear a smile in his voice that suggested that those effects hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Hmmm. Massage directs the blood flow away from your head and, uh, towards other areas.” John’s hand slid from the arch of his foot, over his ankle and then up the inside of his leg, his touch light and gentle, and Sherlock couldn’t stop a groan from slipping out between his teeth. “Working well, indeed.”

Lifting Sherlock’s feet off his lap, John rose. Sherlock whinged, but John shushed him, lowering his feet back gently to the sofa. “I’m just trying something else. Sit up a bit.” He took the cloth off Sherlock’s eyes, then put his hand on Sherlock’s back and pushed him up gently. Sherlock blinked a few times. The room was nice and dim, though, and he didn’t feel the spike of pain in his head that he’d been dreading.

While he’d been adjusting to having his eyes uncovered, John had slid around to sit behind him, a leg on either side of him. Sherlock exhaled and relaxed back against John’s chest, tilting his head back until he could see the beloved face looking down at him, dark blue eyes and snub nose and crooked, beautiful mouth. John reached for the coffee on the table and held it to his own lips to test the temperature, then handed it over to Sherlock. “Just right. Here, drink.” He took a sip, then a long swallow. “You know why you’re gulping that, right? You’re dehydrated AND your blood sugar’s low. Both of which contribute to migraine.”

Sherlock groaned, “Yes, thank you, doctor, I should drink more. And eat. I know.”

John smiled down at him and kissed the top of his head. “Hush, you. Caffeine will improve your disposition as well as constrict your arteries. Two for the price of one.” He reached for the bowl and wrapped one of the ice cubes in a towel. “Next up is ice. More constriction.” He ran the wrapped cube across Sherlock’s forehead and temples, down his jaw and up and down the sides of his neck.

The ice left chill tracks of melted water across his face and neck and he shivered as they evaporated. “Your carotid arteries are some of the largest in your body,” John continued, “and they’re much closer to the surface of your skin than the jugulars. Since they’re bringing blood to your brain, if we can shrink them a bit, it will help with the throbbing. Can you hear a rushing sound? That’s the blood flowing too freely."

He could hear what John was describing, the seashell sound, if he concentrated, but the ice was having a soporific effect; despite the cold sliding down his chest and the back of his neck, his muscles were growing heavy and relaxed. He sagged a little more heavily against John and John held him closer, his arm warm and solid across Sherlock’s chest as he rocked them very gently from side to side. Sherlock found the motion very soothing. “We might consider biofeedback at some point,” John mused.

Sherlock snorted.

“Don’t scoff,” John replied. “The research is very promising. You may be able to induce a relaxation response. You’re excellent at deducing, why not inducing?”

Sherlock snorted again, but reached up to hold John’s arm tightly against his chest.

“I’ve got two more remedies to try and they involve relaxation and neurotransmitters.” He unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, pushing it back from his shoulders. “I’m going to use a little slick, which I just happen to have here…” Sherlock felt him dig for something in the pocket of his trousers, then heard him rubbing his hands together slowly, as if warming something. Then he dug his strong, surgeon’s thumbs into the coiled muscles of Sherlock’s shoulders. A deep rumbling groan rolled up from Sherlock’s chest, part agony and part relief.

“These are your trapezius muscles. They are frequently the locus of stress. This tightness,” he said, pressing firmly and eliciting another half-pained, half-pleasured sound from Sherlock, “is stored up tension. I’m going to try to break up the knot...right...” another groan, “...ah, there! ...by applying steady pressure…” He slid his thumbs around in circles and when the knot loosened, he moved on to the next.

Sherlock focused on breathing, and trying to temper the sighs and groans that burst out of him with hums of pleasure at the results. Finally, John sat back and said, “There. You’re as limp as boiled noodles. Most of you, anyway. Your trousers are looking a bit tight.”

There was a definite swelling below Sherlock’s waist, his cock having plumped up quite noticeably, thanks to John’s ministrations. Now that John had mentioned it, it was impossible for him to ignore, and he squirmed, trying to get comfortable. The pain in his head had receded significantly, although it still hung behind his eyes like thunder.

“Now it’s time for nature’s very own painkillers: dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and endorphins.” John wiped his hands off with the cloth that had been over Sherlock’s eyes, then reached around Sherlock’s waist and began to unbuckle his belt. Sherlock’s breath faltered a bit and John asked, “You ok?”

Sherlock nodded and John continued undoing him. Sherlock’s cock peeped proudly over the waistband of his pants and John made a hungry sound that made him twitch in response. “Lovely.” He drew the tip of his finger, feather-light, around the head. “Blood is definitely being drawn away from your brain. Exactly what we want. Now, the quickest and easiest way to flood your system with happy hormones is with an orgasm. And as your doctor, I’m issuing a prescription for immediate use. Lift up your hips.” John pushed his pants and trousers down as far as he could reach, then left Sherlock to finish the job. When he’d shimmied them off, as well as his shirt, he lay back against John’s chest and was startled to feel John’s bare skin against his. The warmth was intoxicating, though, and Sherlock savored it, letting his head fall back against John’s shoulder, feeling John’s chest rise and fall against his back.

John began to run his hands lightly over Sherlock’s chest, over his pectoral muscles, then down his ribcage and around his belly, repeating the pattern over and over as Sherlock’s cock twitched and swelled. He sucked in a breath and tilted his head to the side, nuzzling into the side of John’s neck, the scent of tea and crisp aftershave from the warm flesh wrapping around him like a blanket. When John started circling his nipples and skimming over them with his fingertips, Sherlock’s hips began twisting and he grabbed John’s hands.

“Please…” he whined.

“Mmhmm. I see that the pain is occupying less of your attention. Let me see if I can eliminate it entirely, shall I?"

Sherlock groaned his agreement. “Yes, please, John, p-please.”

He heard the snick as John reopened the bottle of lube. Then he circled the base of Sherlock’s cock with two warm slick fingers and slid up to the base of his crown, twisting as he went, then returning with his whole fist. Up and down only at first, slowly, and Sherlock clamped his teeth down on a wail, feeling strung as tight as his violin. John gradually increased the speed of his strokes, allowing the gentlest glide and circle over the head. Sherlock panted, torn between wanting the release he could sense barrelling towards him and wanting to stay here, forever, wrapped in John and at the mercy of his clever hands. He started to lift his hips, thrusting in time with John’s stroke, and heard a moan vibrate through John’s chest. John’s hand tightened; a few more strokes and Sherlock thrust, once, twice, and once more, and then froze with his arse up off the sofa, coming in John’s brilliant, perfect grip, every muscle taut, a cascade of stars exploding across the inside of his brain.

Warmth was the first sensation that came back to him, the warmth of John’s chest against his back and his arms - both of them - across Sherlock’s chest. John was trembling slightly, his face buried at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. “Jesus Christ, you’re so beautiful,” he felt John murmur against his skin.

He exhaled and put his arms over John’s, twining their fingers together. He’d have been content to lie there all night, but the air was cool against his exposed skin and things felt distinctly cold and sticky down around his groin. He tried to shift on to his side, but John stopped him.

“Let’s get cleaned up first, what do you say?” He felt John fumbling with something on the table, and then there was a cold damp cloth between his legs, cleaning him off. He made a wordless noise of protest.

“I know, I know, it’s all I’ve got to hand right now,” John muttered. He heard a sloshing sound—presumably the cloth hitting the bowl of now-half-melted ice—and then John shifted them both so that Sherlock was curled up on his side against John’s chest, head resting on John’s good shoulder. John tugged the throw from the back of the couch and spread it over both of them.

“How’s your head?” John murmured, fingers carding through Sherlock’s hair.

He was so relaxed, it took a mammoth effort to form words. “Head?”

“The pain. How’s the pain?”

“Pain?” The pressure behind his eyes had vanished, and he no longer felt that spike at his temple, waiting.

“Another cure for Doctor Watson then?”

Sherlock mumbled into John’s neck. “Mmm. Cured. Skip right to this next time.”

“Will do.” John tugged lightly on a lock of his hair. “But maybe we can keep there from being so many next times. If we work on keeping you from beating yourself up so much. Don't think I've forgotten about it.”

Sherlock groaned at the thought of having to talk about his feelings. But he was too drowsy to argue. John and his endorphins had done their work… which reminded him of something. “What about you?” He tried to raise his head to look at John, but John gently tugged his head back down and wrapped his other arm around him. Sherlock snuggled in closer.

“No worrying about me, you’ll waste all those lovely hormones. Sleep now.”

Despite John’s admonition, Sherlock held off until he felt John’s breathing slow and lengthen in sleep, and then he drifted off against him, content.

**Author's Note:**

> Kameo: As a lifelong migraineur, I have tried every one of these remedies, and some others not included. Even though I've had a heart attack induced by migraine medication, I continue to use it, because, for me, there's no pain worse.


End file.
